Shall Not Sleep [bxb]

Chapter Four

I arrived at school early and headed straight to Mrs. Martin's room. She sat at her desk, drinking tea and marking work. I wasn't the only one who had to rush last-minute to do English work.

    She looked up when she heard my squeaking shoes.

    "Max, you're early," she said, surprised.

    I held up my envelope to give her my reason, before I slip it into the Adopt-a-Soldier box with a silent prayer.

    I was about to turn on my heel and walk out to start my day when she called me back.

    "I can't help but notice how you've taken to this assignment, Max. It's rather unexpected."

    I turned. She was smiling at me. I didn't think I'd ever seen her smile head-on. It looked weird, from this angle.

    "Yeah, well..." I shrugged. "It's the very last thing I expected."

    She looked like she was going to say something else, but I left. I couldn't stand still. I was going to implode if I didn't get answers soon. I had no idea how long I was going to have to wait—could be days, could be weeks—and since I was basically waiting to find out if time travel was fucking real, it was going to be a hell of a wait.

    I hit up my locker to grab my Earth Sciences textbook early and go take a walk outside to clear my head before class. I grabbed the book off the top shelf and was about to shove it into my bag when something fell from on top of it and onto the hall floor.

    Something that was definitely not a page of forgotten homework.

    It was an envelope. A worn, weathered envelope, much larger and thicker than the others. Maximilian Callan, in that perfect cursive, was written across the front.

    The hall was entirely empty. Just me, this impossible envelope, and my heart palpitations. I picked it up in my sweating hands and something big and heavy slid to one corner. I opened the envelope and took out the letter first.

    My dear Max,

    We are both lucky I am on leave. In a tent in the camp, with dry socks and a clean change of clothes (for the first time in a month), instead of in the godforsaken trenches. Here, I can think a little better. In the trench... well, I'm so dazed I might wander up over the edge and be instantly shot by German sniper rifles.

    Max, you are right. You are right about everything. It is the year of our Lord 1916. I have been in France, at the Somme, for three months. And you...

    My God. 2020? One hundred and four years in the future? Like you, I can hardly believe it. I need proof. We both need proof. Send me something from the future, something that will demonstrate that you are telling the truth. I shall look for something, something from 1916 that is impenetrable. You need proof that I am genuine. I won't post this letter until I find something (as hard as it will be, since I so look forward to the reply). Apart from the issue of proof... I would like to give you a gift. In this war, well, sometimes it is too much to hope that I will have many opportunities to give gifts in the future. I've become very generous. Saint Nicholas of the trenches.

    I just don't know what to think. Seeing your proof will push everything else bizarre about you out the window. I knew there was something strange about you but I never would have expected this.

    I fear my the rest of my leave will be entirely ruined waiting for your next letter. It is all I can think about. Thank God for you, though. Before, finding the strength to try to live through each day was a struggle. Now... I just want to make it to tomorrow.

    Eagerly awaiting your next letter,

    Alastair

    PS—I have enclosed your gift. I hope it is enough to convince you that this is no joke. I have been thinking about this an awful lot, and the burden of proof is really on my side. Anything you send me will be astounding and I will completely believe you, but anyone trying to trick you could send you something old. Here is my effort. It is brand new—in better working condition than any antique could ever be. I hope you like it.

    I returned to the envelope and tilt its heavy cargo into my hand. It was a flat cardboard box, about the size of my palm, tied with twine. My heart in my mouth, I opened it.

    Inside was a pocket watch. An honest-to-God pocket watch, gold and shining and ticking, on a chain that coiled in my hand when I lifted the watch out. I almost didn't want to touch it. My fingerprints would smear the surface—but that clued me in. It really was brand new. No smears, no fingerprints, no scratches at all.

    And then, turning it over, I noticed the engraving on the back side.

    To Maximilian Callan, from a friend

1916

    I was speechless. All I could do was stand there, staring, until the hallway filled up around me. I was in a trance. With no time for a walk, I headed to Earth Sciences, the watch in my pocket weighed down my pants.

    The question of proof never really entered my head until his letter. I didn't think it was a prank—I really, really didn't—but this watch could, for all I knew, have been manufactured yesterday. What did I know about pocket watches? Nothing.

    But I knew that there were ways of finding out.

    When I got home, I headed straight for the internet.